The Trekker: 2p Love
by MonsterEnnui
Summary: The sexier version of my friend catsvrsdogscatswin's story, "The Trekker". (Which you should all read, because its bitchin' awesome.) Since Kitty-Cat doesn't like to do any more romance or love-love than she has to, I've taken it upon myself (with her permission and betaing) to write up some love between her OC and the smexy Hetalia men. Most of it isn't cannon to her story though.
1. Reverse Stockholm (2p England)

I opened the doorway to the little poppet's room, my eyes taking a split second to adjust to the dimmer light. I always kept things dark in here, so in case one of my "guests" wandered off and found this room, they wouldn't immediately find –and free– the aggravating little human I had bound here. I softly flicked on a light, which occasioned no response from the figure on the bed –which meant she was ignoring me, or she was asleep.

Either way, my advantage.

As I approached the bed, humming softly under my breath, I noticed with approval that, to a casual observer from any distance, it would seem like the human was merely sleeping, her face turned away from the door and the room, her face hidden by her flowing locks, and everything below the shoulders hidden by a thick, fluffy blanket, her arms arching up under the pillow in one of those amusing sleep-poses people would so often take. The casual observer would be quite, quite wrong, however; underneath that warm blanket, her ankles were bound tightly to the bedframe, and the pillow hid steel cuffs, chained around the bedstead. As I dragged the stool I had left in here closer and sat by the bedside, I gently brushed some of her long blonde hair out of her face –revealing the gag wrapped around her mouth.

She was quite obviously asleep, and it gave me some time to study this intriguing little adversary –this Aryana Thompson. Her soft brown eyes which could flare in a moment into deadly anger were closed, and her face, normally screwed up with hatred or pain, was peaceful and relaxed. Well, mostly; there were some traces of tears around her eyelids, and I could see raw, red skin around the edges of her mouth. The silly bean had probably tried to scream and warn my latest teatime guest, who was currently resting in my icebox –in five or six pieces. She always tried, and always failed; I knew how to tie a gag, and even if she had managed more than a few muffled calls, the walls of this room were thick and I had put a powerful silencing spell there, just in case.

With Aryana, you could never have too many "just in case"s.

I untied the gag –there was no need to keep her quiet now, and if she woke up, I would relish the conversation. As I had suspected, the corners of her mouth were raw and red from her efforts, and as I gently brushed a manicured nail over the right corner of her lips, the skin broke and bled. Perhaps it was from the pain, and perhaps because she was becoming attuned to the presence of her tormentor; Aryana's eyes flew open, and she immediately jerked her head away the scant few inches her bindings would allow it. I smiled greedily at her as those honey-brown eyes met mine, and I saw a horrified flicker in them, briefly, as she realized I was no longer entertaining my "guest". She immediately closed her eyes as she saw the answer in my face, sickened.

"You're a monster." she croaked, her voice hoarse and sore from disuse as she turned her face away, refusing to even look at me. I chuckled giddily, crossing my legs and leaning back, my eyes gleaming as I beheld her bound form. I could never look at her like this without feeling a distinct sense of triumph; I had finally bested this infuriating little human, and I had her safe in my clutches, to do with what I willed.

I liked parading her bespelled self in front of her allies whenever they visited, watching her torment as they looked right through her suffering and left, taunting her with the fact that rescue was _right there_ , but still so hopelessly out of reach.

I enjoyed making her suffer day by day, bringing home all those random men and women from the streets and butchering them every evening, making sure she could hear each and every anguished cry, and occasionally making her watch as I did it.

I loved forcing her to taste-test my grisly cooking projects, watching her look at them with hollow eyes, trying and failing to comprehend which body part they were made of _this_ time.

And I absolutely _adored_ forcing her to realize just how helpless she really was, compared to me.

"You do realize," I began warmly, leaning forward and stroking her cheek with gentle fingers as she twitched and leaned away again. "That it'll all soon be over, yes?"

I knew it and she knew it; as soon as I could make her disappearance plausible, she would die. Already as "England", I had a stock-in-trade answer –she would learn the spell to go home, and be so eager to do so that she would cast it without a second thought. I, her responsible, _caring_ mentor would come home and find her, and all her personal affects, gone. Of course, "England" would be distraught, and immediately demand confirmation that it wasn't wicked me, or one of my allies. I was confident enough in my abilities that I could lay a false trail; Arya would be gone, yes, but it would be another few days before she died. I had promised faithfully that every one of _us_ that had a grudge could have exactly one hour with her before her death, to do with what they willed, as long as they left her alive. I would heal her and reattach any lost body parts at the end of that hour, then pass her onto the next person, and so on and so forth, until everyone had taken a turn in beating this annoying little human into the dust.

And then, only then, would I kill her.

But there was a small snag in this otherwise flawless plan –she wasn't, or wouldn't if she had been studying magic, be competent enough for me, "England", to allow her access to the books that held the particular spell she needed. It would take a several days, maybe weeks, for her to "reach" that level; so I needed to keep her alive for that amount of time.

Arya knew this as well as I did, and the look she turned upon me was dead and dull. "Why do you care? Your illusionary skills are good enough; you can make a fake Arya for long enough to fool them. Just kill me now, and have done with it." she said tonelessly, and I grinned. "So eager for death, poppet?" I crooned, caressing her face gently. "Perhaps I've done my job a bit too well."

She snorted and turned her face away again; I turned it back with an admonishing forefinger. "Now now, it's rude to look away when someone is talking to you." I chided, and she sneered at me. " _Fuck_ you." she spat defiantly, putting emphasis on that naughty, naughty word, because she knew how much I _hated_ it when people swore, and my mouth tightened.

 _ **SMACK!**_

Arya cried out in pain as I slapped her, a red handprint marking itself on her cheek as the corners of her mouth tore further, a tiny trickle of blood threading down her chin. " _ **Watch**_ your _**mouth**_." I hissed back, grabbing her by the chin and forcing her eyes back towards me, knowing that the rage fueling my actions would leave traces of magenta in my normally blue irises, and knowing that it always intimidated people. She glared right back though, didn't back down an inch –there was a reason she was quite an excellent opponent, after all. My eyes involuntarily darted downward as her snarl of distaste widened the cuts in her mouth further, leaving slightly thicker trails of the crimson, sticky-sweet fluid, and my tongue slowly ran along my lips. Her blood looked so sweet; and she surely wouldn't like it if I tried to taste some.

I came to an instant decision and stood up from my seat, letting go of her chin as her eyes closed in retreat. Then I hopped onto the bed and slung my legs over her waist as her eyes snapped open again and darted up to my face, terror flickering in their depths. She tried to squirm backwards, to somehow remove my weight from her hips, but I had tied her down well enough so that she couldn't move more than a couple inches, and was helpless. I grinned wickedly and let her simmer for a few more moments, feeling pleasantly gratified by her fear, before cutting off her squirms by placing my hands on her shoulders, lightly curling my fingers around her outstretched arms. She stopped squirming instantly and looked up at me as if I had run mad, or she feared I had come up with something even worse than my usual slash-and-bruise games.

In a way, I suppose she was right on both ends.

As I smashed my mouth on hers, I grinned as I felt her entire body jerk away, instantly twisting and bucking under me as she tried to _get me off_ , her revulsion and hatred and fear practically palpable. My tongue curled wickedly into her mouth, and I purred happily to myself as I caught a trace of her blood and lapped it up. She tasted even better than I had thought, and I made a mental note to start collecting her blood to use in some of my favorite cupcake recipes. Maybe I would force her to eat some of them; self-cannibalism would be another wonderful little mental torture I could enact on her in the weeks to come.

Besides this, of course.

Now, I knew she had no attraction to me. The fact that she was probably twisting her ankles and wrists bloody in her desperate struggles to break off our "kiss" made it rather obvious. I had no attraction to her; honestly, I didn't give a flying fudge about her appearance, unless she somehow managed to dismiss my illusions and show her little friends how bruised and battered she really was, and the only thing I wanted from her insides was the same thing I wanted from _everyone's_ insides; baking ingredients. She could go to Hell for all I cared; in fact, I would enjoy giving her a nice hard kick to help her on the way down.

This was just one more form of mental warfare.

I knew she had never been kissed before, and while this medley of teeth, tongue, and blood could hardly be called as such, it was close enough for me, and –by her desperate thrashing– close enough for her too. My teeth bit down on her lower lip as she wailed in pain, bringing more of that delicious blood welling to the surface, and I dove my tongue inside her mouth, eagerly lapping up every last trace of the sweet crimson fluid. But now she had had enough and _she_ bit _me_ , a brief spark of pain before my tongue healed, and I shuddered all over at the sickly sweet taste of our combined blood; it was _marvelous, perfect, exquisite_ …

Aryana was screaming into my mouth now, and I realized in a hazy fashion that in my excitement my grip on her arms had tightened and my nails were digging viciously into her shoulders, cutting the smooth skin there and bringing more _blood_ to the surface, and far from easing up, I tightened my grip, my nails eagerly questing for her very bones as the pain gave birth to renewed screams and struggling from the human under me. Did I care? No, I didn't; I kept right on biting and sucking, bloodying her lips and tongue until she was sobbing under me, no longer even trying to struggle, her body arching and twitching for every shift of my fingers, now buried deeply in her shoulders as blood ran down her arms and pooled on the mattress below us.

I finally pulled away with a satisfied _pop_ , several strands of bloodied saliva dripping from my mouth onto hers as I grinned headily at her defeated expression. Tears were leaking from the corners of her tightly shut eyes, and her whole face was screwed up and tense, waiting for the next bout of pain, her lips torn and bloody. I bent my head downwards and fastidiously licked them clean, feeling her tremble for each swiping motion of my tongue, and grinned once more. This really was marvelous; I couldn't think of the last time one of my little games got her so traumatized, so quickly. I _definitely_ needed to do this again, sometime in the very near future.

I pulled my fingers out of her shoulders with a wet _squilsh_ , making her whimper as thicker streams of blood began pouring onto the bedsheets. Cooing like a concerned parent, I stroked her porcelain-pale face with the bloodied digits, leaving smears of red on her cheek. "Poppet…open your eyes now poppet, look at me." I crooned, and she flinched, her whole body pressing away from mine. I smiled as one of my fingers lightly rested on her eyelid. "Open, poppet. Unless you want me to open them _for you_ ~" I sang, starting to apply pressure on her eyeball as she instantly snapped her other eyelid open, pleading up at me with the honey-brown orb to please, _please_ not render her half-blind, her eyes were open, she was looking at me now…

I took the finger off, and felt her relax, barely, in relief as her other eye opened. I couldn't help it; I grinned again, making her flinch. It felt marvelous to have this much control over her, to be this omnipotent. I daresay I'd almost _miss_ it when I killed her…but letting her live would be ridiculous. Absolute rubbish. It wasn't as if I could keep her any longer than I needed to. She had proven to be quite the little escape artist; if I kept her here for longer than a few weeks, she _would_ find a way to break my hold on her, and then _all_ my plans would be blown to hell in a teapot. It was absolutely _necessary_ to kill her as fast as I could.

But then again…if I kept her in our world, completely severed all her ties to this one, she could stay with me for quite some time before it became needful to dispose of her…

I quickly shook my head and stopped my woolgathering. She would _die_ , and she would die _soon_ , in _pain_ , because that was what she _deserved_. Returning my attention to the object of my musings, I smiled at her grimly, still gently stroking her cheek with my bloodied fingers. "Do you hate me, Aryana?" I cooed, and she furrowed her brow slightly, unsure as how to answer. But, slowly, the submissive fear was extinguished –I would miss it– and her natural fire returned; she nodded firmly, her mouth possibly in too much pain for her to speak, her eyes glinting at me and showing the dislike that she had tried to tamp down. I smiled wickedly and leaned down, so that our faces were less than an inch apart. My mouth parted slightly, practically _tasting_ the fresh, warm blood that was smeared on her cheek. " _Good_." I purred, feeling her shiver as my breath ghosted across her skin.

"Because I-"

 _Lick_.

"-hate-"

 _Lick._

"- _you_."

 _Sluuurp._

Giggling to myself, as she shuddered and made a face, I pulled away and swung my legs over her again, hopping off the bed and tripping lightly to the door. I paused as I flicked the switch, looking back over my shoulder at her huddled form on the bed. She began to sob, and I grinned widely, my eyes glittering in the semidarkness. With one last chuckle, I closed the door and skipped down the hallway, heading for the kitchen.

I would have to do research on Stockholm Syndrome later; for now, I needed to do something with my surplus of baking supplies.

* * *

 **Kitty-Cat: Hol-ly sheet. O.O**

 **ME: You like it? :)**

 **Kitty-Cat: From an artist's point of view, yeah, you did great. -.-**

 **ME: And from your point of view? ;3**

 **Kitty-Cat: You are a sick, twisted person, and I immediately retract your rights to write my characters. -.-'**

 **ME: Seriously?! :0**

 **Kitty-Cat: Nah, this is great. He's even more psycho than when I write him. X)**


	2. Hate-Love, Love-Hate (2p America)

I was terrified, he was going to KILL me, murder me with his bare hands, beat me to death with his baseball bat, crush the life out of me with his supernatural strength, it didn't matter, I was going to die, I was going to die.

I felt his hot breath ghost over my ear as he continued speaking. "You know what I hate most about you, bitch?" he asked in a soft, dangerously even tone, and I shook my head silently. He pulled back, and his crimson eyes burned with unknown emotions as they peered through his bangs, wolflike, at mine.

Suddenly he grabbed me by the back of my hair and crushed our mouths together; I was so surprised, I couldn't even begin to try to stop him. His hard teeth clicked against my own, his hot tongue plundered my mouth, and I could feel the blood rush to my cheeks as I struggled, but not enough to break free. His right hand entwined in my hair made sure I couldn't move my head, and the other was gripping my arm so hard I could feel my bone creaking, trapping me in a sick parody of an embrace. As he pushed harder against me, I could feel my back impacting the hard glass of the phone booth as I tried to move away, but he followed right behind. I could feel his missing front tooth, his rough tongue, his slightly chapped lips on my own, EVERYTHING, and it sickened me.

My first kiss, taken by a being who personified criminals and wanted to kill me.

How fucked up was that?

He didn't give me an inch, and I began to thrash even harder, desperate for air as well as freedom. He prolonged the kiss for a good ten seconds after I began to struggle in earnest, then yanked away, and stared at me. Open hatred burned in his blood-red eyes, and he breathed raggedly.

"I HATE you." he snarled, yanking me back by the hair so that my throat was exposed and pressing against me, his eyes burning down at mine. "I HATE every fucking damn thing ABOUT you." he snarled, then plunged his mouth down for another kiss, and I let out a muffled exclamation of protest as his tongue reached all the way back to my tonsils. He pulled back and continued to glare at me hatefully. I stared back, tears welling in my eyes from fear, his rough treatment, and confusion.

He gripped my hair harder. "Pucker up sweet stuff. Papa wants some sugar." he said with an ironic sneer, and I squirmed and struggled as he slammed our mouths back together. Confusion ran rampant in my mind.

If he hated me so much, why was he kissing me so hard? Why was he even doing it in the first place? Why was he reaching his tongue all the way into the back of my mouth and twisting it around my own like a lover? Why was he kissing me so deeply that our teeth clicked together, and I could feel the missing one on the top row? Why was he holding me so tightly that I couldn't refuse his advances?

He was too warm, he was boiling hot, even through the bomber jacket and gloves that covered most of where our bodies touched, he felt like a furnace. His lips burned against mine, his skin seared my own where we connected, and through his gloves I felt the simmering heat of his body. I heard a crack nearby, outside, and he suddenly pulled away again, his chest heaving as his crimson eyes darted to the road.

They moved back to me, and he suddenly grabbed me by the neck, yanking my face close to his as my whole body froze at the aura of danger coming from him.

"You aren't going to mention this to anyone, RIGHT?" he snarled, his hand tightening dangerously on my throat, his eyes burning with barely contained rage. I croaked out an affirmative and shook my head weakly. He smirked, and suddenly slammed my head back against the wall of the booth, hard enough to bruise as tears came to my eyes.

"Something to remember me by, bitch." he whispered in my ear, and I shivered at the heat and moistness of his breath. Then he chuckled darkly and let me go, vanishing off into the night.

I looked around for what alerted him, and sure enough, Romania came tromping through the bushes with his spellbook at the ready a few seconds later, his expression fierce. He smiled in relief as he saw me though, his dark eyes secretly worried. "Hey, Arya right? I saw 2p America in the booth, are you okay?"

I reached up and cupped my throat hesitantly, feeling the lingering burn from 2p America's touch. "He…he just tried to strangle me, and he banged my head against the glass a couple times. I'm…I'm fine." I managed after a few moments, meaning not a word.

* * *

It's not right. There is no way, no circumstance, that would make this "okay" in anyone's book.

So why do I not care?

No, that's wrong. I do care. I DO. I want that bitch dead in an alley somewhere with all her limbs ripped off.

So why do I also want to kiss her brains out?

Fucking, yes, I understand fucking. If I wanted to fuck her, just fuck her, I would get that. Sexy young bitch, I have a male body, you do the math. But it's not just that. I want to KISS her too. Kissing implies attraction beyond a mere one night stand. Kissing implies I'm actually interested.

Kissing implies I don't want to kill her.

It makes me so mad, every damn time I see her it's like I can't take my eyes off her mouth, her lips, her face. She's not even that good-looking, I've had better and I've had worse, so why does it matter with HER?

But it DOES, and I HATE that.

I've got her in a chokehold now, I could kill her, I could kill her so easily, but, infuriatingly, the only thing running through my mind right now is how soft her body is and how easy it would be to steal that kiss. I hate her for that, loathe her to the core and pit of my being, but yet as I whisper venom into her ear and pull back to stare at her with hateful eyes, those lips beckon.

I don't even realize what I'm doing until I've done it, but my mouth is on hers and nothing has ever tasted so good. Her taste is the distilled, intoxicating wine of things forbidden and sacrilegious, wrong in every sense of the word. It's sweet as sugar and spicy as peppers and as I lick greedily at her mouth like a sloppy teenager lover, I realize I'm addicted from this one simple taste. She squirms and struggles, but I'm a country and she's a human, and she can't squirm free.

She's softness and sugar and cream and I just CANNOT pull away, even though every cell of my body screams to back off, to hit this bitch and crush her into a bloody pulp for what she's done to me.

But the region of my mind that controls my body quietly argues that she would taste of blood then, and not sugar.

I would miss that.

She tries to back away and I follow right behind, curling my hand in her blonde hair so that she can't jerk her head away. Right now, just for now, in this one implosive second teetering on an oblivion of shatterment, she's mine and I know she's mine, mine forever.

Then the second falls, crashes, collides, and it shatters into a million pieces and is gone as I pull away, the taste of sugar and rage lingering in my mouth as she stares at me like a cornered rabbit, utterly confused as to why I have done this thing, and terrified because I have, and haven't killed her yet. My breath is raspy, both from rage and lack of air.

"I HATE you." I snarl, yanking her back by the hair so that her throat is exposed and pressing against her, my crimson eyes burning down at her frightened brown ones. And STILL her lips beckon, half open in fright and surprise, my saliva covering them with a glossy sheen.

"I HATE every fucking damn thing ABOUT you." I finally manage, and then our lips are crashing back together, and I can't stop my tongue as it shoves into her mouth, all the way, so that I can taste her. I manage to wrench myself away more quickly and glare at her hatefully. She stares back, tears welling in her eyes from fear and other things.

I sneer and grip her hair harder. If I'm going to kiss her, then I'm going to fucking KISS her. "Pucker up sweet stuff. Papa wants some sugar." I sneer, and she squirms and struggles as I slam our mouths back together. My tongue quickly reaches all the way into the back of her mouth, twisting around her own like a lover in my greed. She makes a sound of protest, but she stops struggling, perhaps finally realizing its futile. Our teeth clink together as I press against her almost, ALMOST pliant body, and my own shivers with lust as I press against her soft curves. This is too perfect and too wrong all at the same time. I can only pray none of the others see me like this, nor any of her friends.

There was a sharp "crack" outside the booth, as if someone has stepped on a twig, and I yanked away as if I had been burned. I glanced at the road, and saw a figure with a spell book cautiously tromping through the forest.

My eyes moved back to hers and I snarled in impotent rage, grabbing her by the throat and yanking our faces close together. "You aren't going to mention this to anyone, RIGHT?" I snarl, my hand tightening on her throat to make my point, knowing that my eyes show the barely contained anger in my body. She croaked out an affirmative and shook her head weakly. I smirked, and slammed her head back against the wall of the booth, hard enough to bruise as tears came to her pretty eyes.

"Something to remember me by, bitch." I whispered in her ear, and I felt her shiver. Chuckling darkly, I let her go, vanishing off into the night.

That was the plan anyway, but when I looked back and saw her talking to that Romania asshole, I realized with a sudden and detached clarity that I don't intend to stop here, even after stealing more than my fair share of kisses. The infuriating corner of my brain, the one that pressed me to do these things, would not rest until I had claimed her utterly.

And yet I still wanted to kill her.

* * *

 **Kitty-Cat: Mkay… o.o**

 **ME: What? O.o**

 **Kitty-Cat: I dunno, its fine I guess. I still think you're f'n psycho. v.v**

 **ME: AND YOU CALL YOURSELF A STRAIGHT WOMAN?! LOOK AT 2P AMERICA, TELL ME THAT YOU AT LEAST THINK HE'S CUTE! DX**

 **Kitty-Cat: I'll admit he's pretty hot, but…so? -.-**

 **ME: You…you're not straight, you're asexual. -.-'**

 **Kitty-Cat: Whatever.**


	3. Infrequent Visitors (2p Canada)

This was a bad idea. Quite probably the worst idea he'd ever had.

Well, there was that one time he tried smoking pot in Oliver's backyard and, being completely stoned, actually accepted the offer of cupcakes from the psychopathic Brit and then spent half the night puking out his innards and trying to reclaim said innards (while bleeding out, he might add) from the cannibalistic bastard, but this came pretty close.

Matt was currently inside his shitty, run-down house, his bastard of a brother out chasing shadows along with the rest of the undergrounds.

The Canadian, a lit cigarette lighting up his face with a soft orange glow, was sitting on the couch, his arms resting on his knees and his purple eyes fixed on the cowering occupant of the only other chair in the room.

Aryana Thompson was clearly terrified, and Matt decided somewhat maliciously that he liked her that way.

The little American shit had tried to ambush him while he was awaiting his brother's return, but unbeknownst to her, Matt was used to surprise attacks in his sleep, and she hadn't managed to get more than one blow in (with his own damn hockey stick too, the little bitch) before he had woken up and reflexively grabbed her by the wrist, and then recognized her and snapped the offending limb effortlessly.

Call Aryana what you would; she obviously hadn't had bones broken before, and in those two seconds that it took her to open her mouth, squeeze her eyes shut, clutch her wrist and _scream_ with uncomprehending agony, Matt had regained his stolen hockey stick and given her a blow to knock her into next Tuesday.

Or render her unconscious for a few hours, but whatever.

It gave Matt enough time to rummage through his brother's supplies and find a pair of handcuffs (kinky bastard, who the hell was around here to fuck, anyway?), drag one of the abandoned chairs into the living room, then haul the little bitch upright and cuff her broken wrist to the chair's back. Matt had then sat down on the couch and started silent contemplation of his prize.

Which was what brought him to his situation now; staring across the room at a terrified American teenager who didn't even try to nurse her broken wrist, just staring blankly right back at him. He frowned and pursed his lips as he continued to glare at her, the cigarette shifting about as he did. He had two options at this point; call in Oliver, probably get Allen extremely smug about her "catching him off his guard", and open himself up to general ridicule from the other nations. Or-

 _Or…_

He could wait. It wasn't like she was going anywhere; with her broken wrist chained to the chair, Matt reckoned it would be too unbearably painful even for this miniature Houdini to twist her arm out of those cuffs, and even if she did, he could always tackle her or something before she reached the sigil, which he was closer to anyways.

He let out a hiss of annoyance as he noticed his sleeve was filthy with dust from dragging all the damn furniture around –it was like everything in this fucking world was shedding dirt and decay, lately– and that the rest of him wasn't much better.

His asshole brother might call him a slob and a lazy-ass bastard, but Matt was as hygiene-focused as the next man, _especially_ when very single fucking object in his life looked like it could give someone tetanus merely by _looking_ at it –or worse.

And when you were a nation personification, infections fucking sucked.

But, he realized with growing irritation, he couldn't exactly just leave the American brat here to her own devices. He was _fairly sure_ that she was in too much pain to attempt escape, but then again, being _fairly sure_ about Aryana was never good enough, especially, it seemed, when you thought you had her where you wanted her. All the others had said so, and Matt, being Matt, naturally wanted not only to prove them wrong, but show them up.

 _Screw this shit._

Aryana squeaked as he stood up, and he didn't bother to stifle the smirk that flashed across his face at her absolutely hilarious expression of terror. He crossed the room in two or three strides, then grabbed her free wrist as she involuntarily jerked backwards, then froze, her face a mask of terror. Matt grinned, taking relish in blowing the cigarette smoke from his lungs into her face and watching her features twist as she coughed, her eyes watering. He lightly squeezed her wrist, still smirking. "You know how I just broke your arm, right bitch?"

Still coughing, her eyes still watering, she nodded rapidly, looking panicked even through the nicotine fumes.

Matt shifted his cigarette around to grin. "Good. If you piss me off, I break the other arm, and your legs to go with it."

She nodded very rapidly now, looking downright terrified.

Aryana then promptly looked surprised as Matt reached down and unlocked her cuff, then shrieked in fear and surprise as he upended her and threw her over one shoulder. She didn't struggle, mercifully, as he strode out of the room, his threat apparently still fresh in her mind. However, by the tenseness in her muscles as she tentatively and cringingly wrapped her other arm around his elbow and hoisted her torso up, probably trying to stop herself from being completely turned upside-down and restore the blood flow to her brain, that she did _ **not**_ like this.

Hell, he didn't expect her to, but then again, he didn't really care what she thought or how she felt, except if she somehow got herself worked up to try and fight back/run away.

As he glanced down at her, climbing up the steps, he realized that all that running around and fighting she did had left its marks on her frame; the black tank top she wore exposed several scars that he recognized as leftovers from stabbings and slashings, as well as several healing bruises from god-knew-what.

She also had a really nice ass.

Now, Matt, along with most other of the underground nations, hadn't gotten a piece from _anyone_ in multiple years, so he felt quite justified in this train of thought. Given that he hadn't even _seen_ a female for _years_ , except the bitch-nations around here who were really, _really_ best to avoid, it made sense that he would appreciate Aryana's body –teenaged though it was, and enemy though she was.

Simply put, he was a male who hadn't had feminine companionship for years. Having (comparatively) the nicest ass he had seen in decades waved about under his nose was _not_ helping.

Nor was the reminder that he really could do whatever the hell he wanted to the human before he handed over her to Oliver.

Matt finally reached the bathroom with some relief, flicking the light on and closing the door behind him, turning around and locking it firmly, then bending down and shoving the key through the crack beneath the door. He grinned; let Little Miss Escape Artist break out of the room _now_ –he could always punch through the wood when he wanted out, and doors were replicable. Speaking of the human, he bucked her off his shoulder with a sneer and let her go sprawling to the floor, not really caring as she cried out and grabbed her broken wrist. The door was locked, and thick enough that a human couldn't break through it, and there were no windows.

Aryana was stuck with him for the time being.

Completely ignoring the human huddled by the locked door, Matt crossed the tiled floor and leaned into the shower bay, grabbing the rusty iron handle and tugging on it with a fruitless curse, then swearing harder and finally getting the catch to turn. Faintly brownish water splattered out of the equally rusty showerhead, and he grunted in satisfaction, shrugging off his Mounty shirt and tossing it on the counter, taking his cigarette out and stubbing it on the counter, then flicking it into the bin. A mortified squeak came from the far corner where Arya was as he began calmly unwinding the bandages around his torso, and he sent her an amused look and a snicker. What a _virgin_ …How very pathetic of her.

She wasn't going to like this next part.

Without giving a fuck for modesty, Matt whipped his belt out from his jeans and let them drop, hearing a louder squeak from the corner as he glanced over his shoulder to see Arya with her (unbroken) arm across her cherry-red face, obviously torn between keeping the obvious danger (himself) in view and preserving her own self-modesty. Matt grinned maliciously and decided he wasn't going to give her the option. Stepping across the tiles, he lightly kicked her outstretched knee, Aryana being huddled up against the door with on leg tucked under herself and the other partially unfolded. "Hey bitch." he rasped, and she involuntarily looked up over her arm, her blush decreasing (slightly) when she saw he still had boxers on. It returned full force, however, at his next words.

"Strip. Now."

Despite the threat (and fear) of having her bones broken, Aryana obviously couldn't stand for this kind of mental warfare. "W-what?! N-no way! T-that's _gross-_ " she stammered incoherently, her face reddening rapidly until she resembled a tomato, and Matt sneered, effortlessly grabbing her by the throat and lifting her up, slamming her against the door as she let out a choked cry of alarm and scrabbled at his wrist with her remaining unbroken arm. He grabbed the strap of her tank top with his other arm and yanked downward, ripping the black fabric away from her torso as Arya let out a strangled screech of embarrassment and pain mingled, the shirt digging into her skin harshly as Matt ripped it off. He dropped her promptly, only to pick her up by the ankle as she squeaked in embarrassment, grabbing her slacks and treating them likewise.

He dropped her for the final time and turned around, striding to the shower and pushing the grimy glass door ajar, then looking back at the half-naked teen sitting on his bathroom floor. His purple eyes narrowed as she gulped and curled up, awkwardly trying to cover whatever parts of her anatomy she could as his eyes bored into her. Matt sneered and pushed his boxers down, kicking them off his feet before stepping into the shower, letting out a grunt of satisfaction as the lukewarm water pelted his body and completely ignoring the human huddled at the other end of the bathroom.

An evil thought suddenly occurred to him, and he pulled the door open again as Arya squeaked and quickly ducked her head down, her eyes squeezed tightly shut. Matt snapped his fingers, making her crack one eye open and hesitantly peep at his face. He made a beckoning motion with his forefinger. "You. C'mere."

Arya's face instantly turned bright red, and she shrank back even further, if that was possible, giving a terrified shake of her head. Matt's violet eyes narrowed. "C'mere, or I'm gonna come get you, and I ain't gonna be fucking gentle." he ground out, and she swallowed hard, uncurling from her spot on the tiles and tentatively scooting over to him.

* * *

 _Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh_ _ **fuck**_ _…_

Why the hell had I taken Gillen's stupid advice? Why the hell had I tried to kill the Canadian and move the couch, instead of just scooting under it or something?!

Now I was inside the _shower_ with the towering Canadian, and both of us buck naked, me standing in front of him, head down and face flaming red with humiliation. I wasn't sure whether or not I wanted to die of embarrassment or fear, but right now, embarrassment was kinda winning. Him with his roaming hands wasn't helping; sure, he was only touching my shoulders and back, tracing the scars the other 2ps had left on me with rough, callused fingers, but I had never been so _exposed_ and have a guy touching me at the same time, and there was constantly the thought that he _could_ move his hands a little lower and to the left or right, and I had no bloody way to stop him.

Matt was at least six inches taller than me, and I could feel his heavy gaze boring into the back of my skull, swallowing hard as I imagined his passive yet somehow pissed-off violet eyes screened by his dripping blonde hair, the strange bastard not even having bothered to take out his ponytail before hopping in the shower with me. My limbs started to tremble with fear, and I tried very hard not to think about all the horrible things the 2ps had been written as capable of doing. His broad, extremely masculine hands stopped moving at my shiver, one thumb lightly rubbing over a scar on my lower left shoulder, and his other hand hovering god-knew-where.

I squeaked and jerked backwards, my face flaming red, as the hand suddenly showed up again and pinched my right nipple, backing up involuntarily into his broad chest. His arm draped across my front and pinned me against him with a dark chuckle, and I squeezed my eyes shut, arching as far away from him as the heavy limb across my torso would permit, very much concerned with the lower parts of our anatomy not connecting. "Please don't." I whimpered quietly as his other hand slowly began to search my body, trembling and trying in vain to avoid those damn _fingers_ that kept touching me in ways and places that I never had, and never wanted, to be touched.

Especially by one of the psycho 2ps.

"Did ya know, Aryana, that we don't really get female company often 'round here?" Matt whispered hoarsely into my ear, and even though Gillen had told me about that before, I wasn't about to sell the guy out. Even if he was kinda responsible for my current situation. I was instantly snapped out of my thoughts by the feel of something foreign and most _definitely_ unwanted poking my ass, and I swallowed thickly. "It's kinda obvious." I finally whimpered, and I could _feel_ him grin against my neck. "Exactly. So –even if you're too young for m' usual tastes– and even if I _really_ don't like ya, we're gonna be getting down and dirty. _Now_."

With that, his hand clamped around my mouth, and with tears in my eyes and a throbbing wrist, I reluctantly decided to surrender to the inevitable.

* * *

 **Kitty-Cat: Whoa whoa whoa whoa wait WHAT THE FUCK?! D8**

 **ME: What? O.o**

 **Kitty-Cat: WHY THE HELL ARE THEY NAKED?! AND DOING…THAT! DX**

 **ME: Well, one, technically its only implied in the close future, and two, I thought I should probably start spicing things up, dontcha know. ;3**

 **Kitty-Cat: ….Not that I want to encourage you AT ALL, but wouldn't it have been better to start doing that with Allen, since he's like, you know, always being written as super horny? -.-'**

 **ME: Well, now that you say so…maybe I should. I dunno, I should probably see what my viewers want. X3**

 **Kitty-Cat: Oh shitfuck, I should've kept my mouth shut. X(**


	4. Unfortunate Doppleganger (2p Germany)

The first sign of trouble was when Italy cut his finger in a training incident and I had to rush inside and grab the bandages stored in the bathroom cabinet.

I had been wearing a black tank top and jeans, so it came as a surprise, when I straightened up again, that I caught a flash of white fabric in the mirror. I did a double-take and looked again, but sure enough, there was nothing but my own perplexed reflection, black-clad and with a bunch of bandages wadded in one hand. I wouldn't question such a thing, but…had my reflection had shorter hair than normal?

I was blonde, and my hair was down to my shoulders, but I was almost _sure_ that the hair I had seen in the mirror barely came past my ears.

I made a confused face at my reflection and shrugged, before turning around and leaving the bathroom. Whether or not I had seen what I had thought I had seen, I really didn't want to have a hallucinogenic episode when Germany was in evil-training mode –he'd probably come after me and drag me back outside, regardless of what I was doing.

A chill ran down my spine as I stepped outside, however, because I could have sworn an evil chuckle float on the air behind me when I closed the bathroom door.

* * *

It was official. I was going nuts.

It wasn't that I kept seeing strange _stuff_ in all the reflective surfaces I passed by, and it wasn't that neither Germany nor Romano nor Italy could see them, it was the fact that every time I saw a mirror bigger than, say, a dinner plate, I always saw this _man_.

Nightmare on Elm street callback? Yes. I was getting that freaked out.

I _thought_ he looked eerily similar to Germany, but I couldn't tell, because I could never catch more than a split-second glimpse of the guy before he disappeared. It was like he could sense me just _seeing_ versus actually _looking_ at him.

And it was doing bad things to my nerves.

The first time I actually saw this mirror-man for more than half a second was, unpleasantly enough, when I was getting out of the shower.

I was avoiding glancing at the mirror by habit, bending down by the cupboard under it as I searched for my hairbrush.

Standing up, I had to bite back a shriek as I came face-to-face with my towering blonde stalker.

He _did_ look just like Germany too; the same blonde hair, same bulky frame, same military coat, but with a few key differences. His eyes were a dark fuchsia, his muscles more defined, a scar slicing across his left cheek, and his general appearance sloppier than Germany would have _ever_ allowed.

His fuchsia eyes gleamed as they slowly, obviously trailed up and down my frame, and my face turned cherry-red as I tried to remember that I _was_ dressed in a towel, frail protection though that might be.

Finally, the look-alike's eyes met mine, and he grinned lecherously.

" _Hey_ _ **Kätzchen**_ _. Nice tits."_

I squealed and broke the mirror with my hairbrush.

* * *

 _Ignore him. Ignore him. Ignore him. Ignore him._

I squeezed my eyes shut as the door to the bathroom creaked _open_ and _shut_ , _open_ and _shut_ , as if some malicious child was playing seesaw with the flat slab of wood.

" _C'mon_ _**Kätzchen**_. _Aren't you going to talk to me?_ "

Despite my best efforts to the contrary, I couldn't help but glare over my shoulder, seeing the mirror above my dresser reflect the opposite corner, where, despite the fact that my room was clearly empty, the Germany look-alike was casually reclining against my nightstand, idly pushing the door open and shut with his booted foot, grinning at me. Bastard probably knew how irritating it was. "Fuck you. Why don't you leave me _alone_?" I asked irritably, and his grin broadened.

" _Fuck? Yes. But leave you alone…sorry_ _ **Kätzchen**_ _, no can do._ "

I groaned and covered my head with the pillow, trying to distract myself by wearily going over what I knew about this…person. His voice sounded…very rough. And his accent, while most certainly German, was of a far different type than Germany's.

Germany's accent, even when he was yelling, always had this undertone of…of _unseriousness_ to it, like it was so stereotypical that it wasn't even real German. _This_ guy, however, sounded like a legit Nazi (no offense to other Germans), always mixing up his English words and sprinkling them with a few letch-like nicknames. My German studies were far enough along that I was _almost_ completely sure that "Kätzchen" meant "kitten", and not the _other_ feline noun that, quite frankly, I could easily see him using.

The bastard _better_ not be saying that to me every few sentences.

"What the hell are you, anyway?" I grunted through the pillow, and I heard him chuckle. My whole body stiffened in rage as I felt a _very_ masculine hand drift over my ass, and I kicked out at him as he laughed and dodged the awkward movement. His fuchsia eyes gleamed at me in the dark as his grinned, his teeth white and shining. " _Hasn't my counterpart been teaching you his superstitions? I'm a_ _doppelgänger_ _,_ _ **Kätzchen**_ _. The name's Lutz._ "

* * *

I let out a long sigh of content, leaning back into the marble bathtub that connected to my room. By some miracle of luck, Italy still hadn't fixed the mirror above the sink, so I could finally get some peace _away_ from my supernatural German stalker.

The warmth of the bathtub seemed to leech all the stress right out of me, and I sighed in relief, my eyelids half closed. I hadn't slept well in weeks –Lutz had made sure of that; creaking my bathroom door, stomping around the room, constantly trying to poke me in my sleep, etc.

 _Well_ …it might not have been poking he was after.

I frowned slightly, my nose crinkling. Best not to think about him now; I was relaxing.

I sighed again as I stretched all my limbs out to their fullest, reveling in the extraordinarily roomy basin. Italy's house really was the height of European luxury. The circles under my eyes were getting to be worrisome, but nothing a little makeup couldn't handle. Yeah, life was good right now. Nice tub, warm bath…huge German on top of me what the fuck-

My eyes snapped all the way open as I stared up at Lutz, his sharklike grin broadening as our eyes made contact. "WHAT THE FU-" I began in a high-pitched shriek, very much aware of the fact I didn't have so much as a film of _bubbles_ to cover my naked body, but his dripping hand whipped forward and clamped over my mouth. He held the forefinger of his other hand to his lips, still grinning broadly. " _Hallo_ _ **Kätzchen**_ _. I got bored waiting for you, so I came in here._ " he purred, lowering his hand towards my body, and my eyes widened above his fingers. Instantly I lashed out, slamming my curled fist up at his face. He caught my hand easily, still grinning. With almost contemptuous ease he pinned it above my head, then took his other hand off my mouth and grabbed my left wrist. I instantly took breath in to scream, except it was muffled by him crashing his mouth against mine, and I winced as he slammed my other wrist down on the hard marble of the bathtub, now pinning both my arms in place. He tasted like alcohol and beer –not that I would know what either of those tasted like, because Prussia totally hadn't slipped me a bottle of German beer a few weeks ago so I could "taste the awesomeness of real German beer". Nope, definitely not.

His hands were so huge that he could hold both my wrists at the same time, freeing his other hand as it slowly, mockingly trailed its way down my right arm, pausing at my shoulder, then sliding down further and firmly groping my breast. I squealed in protest and tried to push him off, to back away, to do _something_ , but I couldn't. I couldn't do anything, and a chill of fear crept over me. Pushing up to try and throw him off only made it seem like I was eager –he was too heavy to just muscle aside, even though he was still almost halfway see-through. Trying to press down or to the sides didn't work either, because I was already at the bottom of the tub and while it was deep and long, it wasn't very wide. My arms were pinned above my head and his very solid but somehow still visually insubstantial weight was across my hips, making both kicking and punching useless.

I was helpless.

I didn't _like_ being helpless, and even less did I like the number one worst possible scenario in Hetalia happening to me, right here, right now; a country (Lutz seemed to be a country, or at least something with their strength) that was many times my physical superior was pinning me down, and there was no way that I could mentally, physically, or psychically get him off. He could do whatever he wanted, and right now, apparently, what he wanted was something I _definitely_ wasn't prepared to give. I filled my lungs in preparation to shout for Doistu, like any panicked Hetalian would. "GERMANY HEL-mmph!" My volume suddenly and sharply decreased as Lutz wrapped his hand over my mouth, gripping hard enough to make my bone ache as his fuchsia eyes darkened, gleaming an angry violet. I gulped.

" _Bad choice,_ _ **Kätzchen**_ _._ "

I let out a sharp gasp and a hiss of pain as I felt him _bite_ me, the crook of my neck throbbing in pain as I felt his warm, wet mouth travel further up my neck, grazing my skin dangerously with his teeth. " _I suppose he still hasn't taught you about doppelgängers, has he?_ " he sneered, and I gulped, shaking my head as best I could as I felt myself start to fucking cry. I couldn't help it! I was scared! I let out another tiny hiss of shock and a sharp whimper as he bit down again, hard, just under my ear. " _We're the darker halves,_ _ **liebchen**_ _. We get angry. We get cruel. If you pissed off my counterpart, well, he'd yell at you a bit, and then fuck you._ " His tongue laved over the wound he had made under my ear, and I swallowed thickly, the tears starting to leak down my face. I really couldn't help it, I was so scared, but I still tried to glare the bastard down, make him somehow, someway, back off. " _Whereas I am gonna fuck you over, and fuck you over_ _ **good**_ _."_

I let out a cross between a yelp and a scream as I felt his elbow roughly knock my legs aside and his hand snaking down between them, plunging several fingers into my virgin entrance, the sound muffled by his palm so even I couldn't have told you what it would have been. He started moving them roughly, and every single nerve ending in my body was telling me that this was bad, that this _hurt_ , and that this was _not good_ , but for some incomprehensible reason, Lutz was smiling.

I broke out into a cold sweat, staring tearfully up into those merciless, ghostly eyes as hot flares of pain began to smolder in my lower regions. That was not a good smile. That was not a sane smile. That was a predator's smile, all sharp teeth and implied menace. Like a wolf would smile at a stupid shepherd. Lutz had said something about being Germany's counterpart a few times, right? Well, Germany had certainly had a few dark spots in his history, more than a lot of other modern countries. Or rather, that is to say, Germany's wrongdoings had been a lot more recent, and a lot more publicized.

World War 1 –17 _million_ deaths.

World War 2 –60 _million_ deaths.

The Holocaust.

Nazi Germany.

I shuddered all over as Lutz forced my legs apart, and moved.

 _God in Heaven, help me._

* * *

 **ME: Man, this was fun. :)**

 **Kitty-Cat: I still regret allowing you to do this and you are an absolute psychopath. -.-**

 **ME: Oh, you're no fun. Speaking of, shouldn't you be doing your explanation-spiel thingy, 'cause I'm lazy? .**

 **Kitty-Cat: *sigh*…whatever. In this, Aryana is unaware of the existence of the 2ps –she never learned much about them and she's forgotten what she knew. Lutz was sent through the mirror to keep an eye on her while the others (this is where MonsterEnnui brushes up with my actual timeline) were taking over the 1ps. (In my story they were gonna save Germany for last (or one of the last ones) so they could gang up on him, but the no-good meddling kids (Aryana, Romano, and Prussia) spoiled that for them.) v.v**

 **ME: Aaaand the bit about the doppelganger? :3**

 **Kitty-Cat: *another heavy sigh* A** doppelgänger **is a creature/phenomenon in Germanic mythology, although it basically means the same thing we use it for; something that looks exactly like a specific person, but isn't that person. Some people thought they were demons or evil spirits; so seeing it was a bad omen that might mean you were going to die soon and that they'd take your place afterwards. Google it if you don't believe me. v.v**

 **ME: This is why I have you do all my beta stuff. You know everything. X3**

 **Kitty-Cat: I HAVE MY OWN STUFF TO DO TOO YA KNOW! DX**

 **ME: Whatevs. Dark!2p!Germany is fun 2p!Germany. Translations from the peanut gallery? ;)**

 _Translations (as provided by Kitty-Cat):_

 _Liebchen: Sweetheart._

 _Kätzchen: Kitten._


	5. Smoker's Kiss (2p Prussia)

"For the love of –what's your _problem_ Gil!?" I hissed in frustration, looking over my shoulder. Gillen was slouching against the doorway to the kitchen, smoke trailing from his lit cigarette. His hair was tied back in a sloppy ponytail, and he was dressed, as per usual, in stuff that a homeless person would be ashamed to own. Seriously, Prussia and Germany kept offering to give him normal clothes, but he insisted that his own "clothing" was much more comfortable. He raised an eyebrow at my snappish question, and raspily replied "I'm allowed to smoke in here, you know." The look on his face was faintly smug as he said it, and I snorted and turned back around, busily trying to fix a double-chocolate cake for Italy.

"That's not what I was talking about. Why are you _here,_ in the kitchen?" I said ponderously, measuring out the flour. "You never come here. Hell, I don't even think you eat." I teased, only to be met with silence. I frowned slightly at the lack of response, then stiffened when there was a sudden presence behind me, combined with the sick churning in my gut that I got whenever a 2p was around. Two hands suddenly slammed on the counter on either side of my hips, and I jumped, feeling the presence behind me loom forward. "You're in ze kitchen." Gillen rasped from behind me as I relaxed slightly, now that I knew it wasn't anyone attempting to kill me. "No fucking duh I'm in the kitchen." I snapped, not in the mood for obvious banter as I squirmed around to face him. From bitter experience, I knew 2p!Prussia was stubborn as a mule, and twice as infuriating when he wanted something.

Our faces were only a few inches apart, and the smoke from his cigarette made me cough slightly, unused to the nicotine fumes. I watched a series of mirco-expressions cross his deadpan face, most especially his eyes, and then he did the unthinkable. He _took the cigarette out of his mouth_ , and –wait, _no_ , he wasn't, he _couldn't_ be– stubbed it out on the counter. I stared at him like he had grown a second head. Never, in all the six or seven-some months I had known him, had Gillen _ever_ taken an unfinished cigarette out of his mouth under his own free will (and oftentimes not even then). He looked into my eyes expressionlessly, rolling his lower lip between his teeth. "Better?" he rasped in question, and I nodded, looking at him uncertainly as I did.

"Um…yeah…what are you doing?" I asked awkwardly, as well I should. I was stuck between a rock and a hard place –metaphorically speaking– with Gillen still pinning me to the counter with his arms on either side of my body, too close for me to duck down and squirm away. He was staring at me with all the emotion of a hunk of granite and, although he no longer had an active stick in his mouth, still reeked of cigarette fumes.

It. Was. _Weird_.

"Do you hate me?" he suddenly mumbled, and I raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Huh?" I repeated blankly, and he coughed –hacked, really– and shifted from one foot to the other. "You know, since I am a Second Player." he clarified hurriedly, and I stared at him for a few seconds, struck dumb by the sheer and utter ridiculousness of the question, before answering. "Dude, seriously? You saved my life, back when I got kicked back into your world, plus, you've never tried to kill me and just in general be psychotic, like the others. You're cool." I said jokingly, giving him a cheesy thumbs up. He looked at me silently, and I dropped the thumbs, rubbing the back of my head. "Ehehehe…you know what I mean."

"Right, so no killing und no turning psycho…" Gillen muttered under his breath, and I stared at him, more worried about the fact that he seemed to need that _clarified_ than the fact that he took my "advice" as orders. Gillen's dull blue eyes returned to me, and I swallowed hard. "L-look, dude, I kinda need to know why you're pinning me to the counter, so, like, just say or do whatever you were gonna say or do and let me get back to business." I stammered, and he raised an eyebrow. "You really don't know." he said bluntly, as if clarifying something, and I shrugged helplessly. "Know _what_?" I was tempted to say, but my body language said it for me.

Gillen sighed and rubbed the back of his head, then suddenly leaned forward. "Um, duuuude, personal spaaace…" I said nervously, leaning backwards until my spine creaked in protest and I was nearly three inches away from the granite countertop. Gillen shifted his arm slightly so he was now holding himself up above me via his left hand, and continued leaning closer. "Um, um, dude, Gillen, can you like please back o-off-" I stammered, my face turning red as I placed a hand on his chest and tried to push him away, or at least stop him from advancing. Another micro-expression crossed his eternally deadpan face, only this one was easily identifiable.

Determination.

"Wait Gil-"

My words were lost in a "mph!" of protest as Gillen roughly pressed his mouth against mine, my spine curling backwards as I tried to escape it. It wasn't like I didn't _like_ him, it was just the fact that I didn't like him in this fashion. Unfortunately for me, I was still stuck between a rock –Gillen– and a hard place –the counter. I had about two inches of maneuverability, unless I wanted to sucker punch Gillen in the gut…which was rapidly becoming tempting. He'd saved my life, yes, and he wasn't all that bad a guy, yes, but there were just some limits to how far you could push a female.

He tasted almost exactly like all the cigarettes he smoked, and he absolutely _reeked_ of nicotine. As he leaned further into me, pinning me down, I made another muffled sound of protest. My back was seriously starting to hurt; I could feel my spinal vertebra cracking in protest. Gillen finally decided to solve this by pushing me so far backwards that I actually lost my balance and collapsed back against the counter. I felt a slightly involuntary blush burn across my face as I felt his tongue poke at my mouth demandingly. I had three options; open my mouth and let him do as he pleased, open my mouth and then bite his freaking tongue off, or keep my mouth closed and refuse him entry.

It was a surprisingly conflicting decision.

I really didn't want to just let him do whatever the hell he wanted, but I also felt some reluctance in actually biting his tongue. Experience in biting my own had taught me that it hurt like a bitch, and I didn't want to inflict that on someone who had saved me from a fate worse than death –not to mention the fact that he could accidentally snap me like a twig if I shocked him with that kind of pain. Keeping my mouth closed was a bad option because of that selfsame strength, so, after almost a solid minute, I finally gave into his prodding.

I coughed slightly as Gillen's tongue instantly shot down my throat, the taste of cigarettes increasing dramatically –I was probably getting secondhand smoke just from his saliva. His lips were also slightly cold, which I found interesting –from a _purely_ _scientific_ point of view– since he was constantly smoking and thus constantly having fire and hot embers close to his mouth. For that matter, he'd had a cigarette in his mouth just a few moments ago –shouldn't his mouth still be warm?

Breathing was becoming troublesome –and by breathing, I meant _getting some fucking oxygen_. I remembered the hand I had put against Gillen's chest earlier –which for some reason had stopped pushing him– and shoved with all my might, making him pause for about half a second, then pull away. I took a single, heaving gasp of air, and then another, and then another. "Jesus Christ." I finally coughed, wiping at my watering eyes with the back of my wrist. "You need to stop smoking."

Gillen raised an eyebrow at me, pulling back slightly –which made my half-sprawled position on the kitchen counter all the more evident– and slowly tapped his fingernails against the stone counter. "You haven't forbidden me from doing it again." he said raspily, a slightly smug grin twitching at the corner of his mouth. I turned a bright, furious red. "You're not getting the issue here, buddy-boy!" I half-shouted at him, jabbing my finger in his chest. "I do not appreciate my mouth being _violated_ against my will, so if you would kindly fuck off, I-NNMPH!"

This rather muffled shout was brought on by 2p!Prussia kissing me again, even harder than before, and this time I _did_ sucker punch him. He pulled away and gave me a slightly reproachful look –a look far less pained than I wanted it to be. "Listen _fraulien_ , you _owe_ me." he hissed, his silvery bangs hanging over his face as I swallowed hard. Alarms started ringing in the back of my head. _He might be nicer, but he's still a Second Player!_ A tiny voice screamed, and I shrank back against the counter as Gillen placed a finger of his own over my heart, pressing hard. "I saved your life. You gave me thanks. Und thanks to zat, _ich mag du_. Oliver's not going to get you. _Prussia's_ not going to get you." His face inched closer to mine at every word, something dangerous flickering in his eyes. " _Du. Bist. Meine_."

I swallowed hard, mentally casting around for an idea to make him ease up and/or get this completely crackbrained idea out of his head. Gillen's eyes flickered slightly with something unreadable, and his head dipped as he gently nudged his nose against my jawline. " _Es ist okay._ I won't hurt you." he murmured, and the part of me repeatedly screaming "WARNING DANGER WARNING DANGER WARNING DANGER" quieted slightly as I swallowed again, but with less fear. "And out of sheer dumb curiosity, what would you do if Italy and the others kept hugging me?" I asked, half-jokingly, half in real concern for my friends, and Gillen grunted thoughtfully. "Vell, you said no killing und no turning psycho. I'll figure something out." he muttered seriously.

I whimpered slightly and slid off the counter. "That's what I'm afraid of."

* * *

 _ **ME: Because Possessive!Smoking!2p!Prussia is the best 2p!Prussia. :3**_

 _ **Kitty-Cat: Did you really need to add the "Smoking"? -.-**_

 _ **ME: Yeah I did, as in sssssssssmoking hot! ;)**_

 _ **Kitty-Cat: There's hardly any fanart of him. How the hell do you know whether or not he's hot? -.-**_

 _ **ME: Sssh, sssh, Unbeliver, sssh. There's no such thing as an unattractive Hetalia character.**_

 _ **Kitty-Cat: I'll prove you wrong. I will look on the internet and I will prove you wrong. -.-'**_

 _ **ME: Yeah, whatever. Tr-tr-tr-traaaaaanslations from the peanut gallery! :D**_

 _ **Kitty-Cat: You are so weird. Anyway, "Ich mag du" means "I like you". "Du bist meine" means "you are mine." So on and so forth. If they don't know, why can't they just google it? -.-'**_

 _ **ME: Not everyone knows German, my multilingual friend. V.V**_

 _ **Kitty-Cat: Everyone should. It's an awesome language.**_


End file.
